


Deep

by Dominatrix



Series: 120 Raindrops on the window [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Hurt, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:44:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominatrix/pseuds/Dominatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlocks returns after his faked death. But something is not right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep

It was more than just a little strange. John sat opposite to Sherlock, the man of whom he had believed was dead for several years. But he was as vivid as always, though he looked a bit lost on the dark blue couch. The mug in his hands trembled, but maybe John was just imagining this part.

It was quiet. Too quiet, und it was no happy silence. Still John could not believe it.

There was nothing left to ask. Sherlock had answered all questions – with icy silence. John did not get a single word out of him, why he had faked his own death, what purpose it had had to leave John completely alone behind, without a single hint. He had left him alone, but John had not believed for a second that Sherlock had told the truth when he was standing on the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, cell phone at his ear, telling John so many things he did not want to hear. That Sherlock was a liar, that all crimes had been arranged. That he had lied to him permanently in the end. John had never believed it.

However, he was angry. He wanted to punch Sherlock in the face, the way he had done it few days before. Back then Sherlock had almost passed out. Now his nose was straight again, if a bit swollen.

“Are you happy?” Sherlock broke the silence in the living room. He heard how John’s wife ran around upstairs. He was really interested in this. John was torn out of his thoughts by the cool voice.

“Hm?”

“With Mary. Are you happy with Mary?“ John smiled briefly. It surprised him that Sherlock asked such a question. His interest was unusual. But maybe Sherlock had developed, too, while he was…away.

„Of course, I mean…“ He paused when he thought about Sherlock’s question again, word by word. _With Mary._

„Just one second. I have never mentioned her name.“ The silence grew even further. Sherlock tried with all his power to set the mug down on the table silently, but the chattering of porcelain on the glass plate hurt in his ears. Without looking at John, without even glancing in his direction he leaned back, teeth clenched.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was disbelieving. Of course it was. Who would have such an abnormal idea? Who would be so cruel to do something like that?

“Sherlock, please tell me you deduced this.” Who, apart from a man that had nothing left to lose anyway? Who, apart from a man that just wished for the most important person in his life to be happy – if he couldn’t be happy _with him_?

“You did not do this.” His voice was now confounded and trembled from suppressed anger. It hurt more than the punch in the face some days before. The accusation in his words tasted bitter on Sherlock’s tongue.

 

“I wanted you to be happy.”

“And that’s why you put someone on my tracks?”

“She owed me something.” Sherlock recognized that these weren’t the right words to express the situation when he saw each emotion drop out of John’s face. He ruined everything.

“Don’t get me wrong, John. Mary loves you. She said it to me personally.“

It was true. Sherlock had called her, once a week, mostly more often. _How is John?_ Again and again the same question, because it was the only question that mattered. He did not ask any other questions; he did not answer her questions, when she wanted to know where he was or if he was okay. How was there any possibility that Sherlock was okay? He was dead. He was alone. He had lost John. He had lost the one that had been most important.

And right now he lost him again; he could see it in the eyes of his former flat mate.

“I can’t believe it. You lied to me. You lied to me _the whole time._ “ No, it was wrong. It just was not true.

“John, I…” No, now wasn’t the right moment to speak out the words that had accompanied him for years. It was hard to hold them back after he had waited for so long, but he pushed them down firmly, in a dark corner of his mind.

“Did you _ever_ tell me the truth?” The pain in his voice shocked Sherlock; it trickled deeply in his bones, spilled vitriolic acid all over until every square centimetre of Sherlock burned in painful, fiery flames. It hurt so badly.

“I tried to protect you. I did not want you to be alone. You were so desperate…I had no other choice.“

„You had the choice to come back.“

“But I did. I am back.”

“After four years, Sherlock. What did you do for four years?“

Sherlock was silent. Pictures appeared in his thoughts.

Explosions. Blood. Dead people. Pain. Doubts. Drugs. Unspeakable horrors.

 

“Irrelevant. I am back.“ For some reason Sherlock had the feeling that he was not back entirely. He left a part of him with John, and this part…It was gone. Back then he had seen it in John’s eyes. Now he saw nothing apart from flat, dead scorn.

„I wish…“ „What?“

„I wish you would’ve stayed away.“

 

There was nothing left to say after this. Sherlock rose wordlessly and without looking John in the eyes another time. He could not bear this deep disappointment again. Not after all that has happened. John was kind-hearted enough to bring him to the door and open it for him. It was not an offer. It was an order. Sherlock knew his friend good enough to know that he would not change his mind. With a heavy pace he stepped over the threshold into the coldness of the deep black night and turned around again. John had his teeth clenched; his mien was the mien of a soldier. Sherlock knew that it found its end here.

But he owed John at least one answer on the question that John did not ask, and this answer on every question that John could have ever asked him was a truth that rooted deep in Sherlock.

“I love you.”

 

The door shut with an unmistakable bang. Sherlock pushed his hands in the pockets of his coat and disappeared in the shadows. He did not know where he was going, where his feet were leading him. He did not even notice that he got further and further into the shadows, until nothing was left of him.

Well, by now it was unimportant.


End file.
